


Clever and Wild

by amber_sword_lilies



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), F/M, Sex, Sharing a Bed, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 14:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14474994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amber_sword_lilies/pseuds/amber_sword_lilies
Summary: Steapa is tasked with delivering a mysterious Viking to the coast, and he is eager to rid himself of her. They stop for the night to eat and rest. An intoxicating combination of fire, water and mead makes the company captivating, to say the least.





	Clever and Wild

“What kind of man are you?”

She asked it simply, as if she were asking him the colour of his eyes, something she could easily see and had no business asking for. They were a cool sage green and narrowed at her.

“I don’t-.”

“You are Alfred’s man,” she began her observations, sitting back as she crossed her arms, fingers playing with one of the dark locks from the mess of curls crowning her. “You are Steapa the Clever. A mighty warrior, and watchful eyes of a Saxon king.”

There was a slow, methodical rhythm to her low voice that made it seem soft thunder. Steapa abandoned the hearty meal the inn had provided. His charge sat across from him, watchful and curious in more ways than one.

The Danes claimed no association with her. The Northmen had tried to take ownership, explaining that a völva of theirs had left after sour prophecy. She spoke in their tongues, but her voice was not like theirs. They had clear, musical voices; light and cold. Hers was smoky, thick and soft. Hers was fog, and it revealed nothing. Finan was the only other she had spoken to, and he remained so shaken by the experience that neither drink nor threat could draw an answer from him.

“ _ The  _ king.”

“There have been others, and there  _ might  _ be more.”

Dark eyes watched him bristle, and a smirk twisted the corner of her mouth. Paired with a curious frown, that was the most expression she ever gave. All evening, Steapa had been waving down jug after jug of mead, and she drank. Her eyes remained unclouded, even as his own became heavy. Drinking with her had been unwise, but necessary for her to join him.

It was going to be a long night after all.

She leant forwards, propping her crossed arms on the table and fixing him with a keen stare. She studied him in silence; his broad features, rough hands, and sharp eyes that should have been sober. The air around them shifted with the idle noise of other patrons, a smoky fire and the pouring rain outside. Between them, the air was still and quiet, ready to be pierced but by who? They both held knives and tongues.

“You are strong. I have seen you fight and know you can,” she tilted her head. She was ageless, and this made him uneasy. In one moment, she was little more than a child, and the next, she was a woman who had seen the horrors of life. “They call you the Clever.”

“That is a joke,” he grumbled, taking a mouthful of sharp mead. Her smirk faded.

“You are a teacher. A good teacher. Teachers must be clever.”

“I’m no teach-.”

“You teach the princess. I’ve seen you…”

_ Of course. _

“…she learns well, and yet not from the lessons life gives her. So, you must be a good teacher.”

“I am not.”

“A liar then.”

She watched him take another drink and swirled her own. This was sweeter than the fiery waters of her home, softer, and it made men soft. His heavy brow pulled into a frown, drunken tongue stumbling over words before he could restrain it.

“Alfred would not trust a liar. He is wise, and God gifts him the sight to find truth.”

Musing, she drank. It slipped down her throat as cold fire, giving no heat to rain-soaked flesh. The cup met the table with a hollow, wooden tap as she leant forwards again and mapped his scars. He watched her in cool observation.

“We all trust liars, if only to lie.  _ So,  _ you are Steapa the Clever, a teacher, warrior, the eyes and ears of a king who asks only his God for sight… I wonder how useful you are. You must be… Perhaps you are great.”

His head was heavy, lulled into the pillowed quiet of a foreign voice wrapping around his own tongue. It had been three long days of riding through the cold rain, sleeping with one eye open even after binding her, and living off rabbits and pigeons. The sharpness of his eyes was dulled by alcohol, the warm light of a fire and a sinking meal.

“You have won many battles, fought in wars and lived. So, you are great or a coward. I do not think you a coward.”

“I am lucky,” he nodded, searching an empty cup and wondering when it had become so.

“You are humble. Kind. That makes you good, too.”

“It does not do well to sin. What we sow in this life, we reap upon our judgement.”

“Wise. You are many things, Steapa, but are you a man and what kind?”

He looked up with a sudden frown. “You’ve done nothing but tell me what I am. Now you ask?”

Her eyes narrowed. She leant forwards further still, so close he could smell the rain in her hair and the fire on her breath. He didn’t move.

“What makes you so curious about my life? About all our lives?”

“I am curious about  _ life.  _ Life is-.”

“A gift. A curse. One step in a mightier journey.”

“Death. Life is death,” she said softly. Nodding slowly, she watched his eyes as she continued. “and death? Death is-.”

“But another step,” he ground out the words, becoming impatient with games he was tired of playing. The smirk that returned to her mouth made him clench his jaw, fist tightening around the wooden cup his palm dwarfed. A thought was brewing in her eyes, as threatening as thunderclouds. He watched it approach, but still felt struck by the lightning when it reached her tongue.

“Some men run towards death, sword in hand, and chase it. Others run away, sometimes with swords, and hide from death,” she spoke hoarsely, soft in the quietening inn. He noticed the slight fingertip tracing over his knuckles and pulled his hand away quickly.

“Which are you Steapa? Do you run to death? Or away?”

“Neither. I stand and wait for it. The Lord will take me when he decides. Until then, I serve my king as best I can.”

He couldn’t help but think this was not the best use he had ever been put to. He was to ferry her to the north, where a ship from her own people would take her home. She had little purpose here now. Her days on this island were complete and he was to make sure she left them behind. The days of silence, he could take. Plying her with drink had loosened her tongue enough to betray her thoughts, but they had proven more tightly woven than scripture.

Alfred would not be wrong, Steapa had faith in that, and in God. He would not be misled. The sooner he got rid of her, the better.

“Hmm.”

He lifted his eyebrow, silently hoping that whatever thoughts she had now were brief.

“Most men choose a path and follow it. You are not most men. This makes you great, and no coward. You are a curious creature, Steapa.”

His brows fell in a frown.

“You make your own path but still, it will lead to death.”

_ Of course. Why would she have said anything else? All roads lead to death in her faith, and there is little beyond but the sins we are punished for in life. _

“Are you a man?” she asked.

He frowned as if it weren’t obvious. He was sitting before her in leather and mail, cloak shed to dry. The lines of his features were bold, strong. Dark hair dusted his throat and jaw in a rough shadow that scratched under his careless fingertips. He chewed a dark mouthful of malted bread, soaked with stew he’d finished an hour before, and washed it with the dregs of the jug.

Her features were softer, but steady. Paler skin and darker eyes than his. She was as contrasting as the rest of her kind. For a woman, she was strong. Deadly with an axe, as he’d witnessed months before, and a bow, as he’d seen this morning when she’d shot down breakfast before he’d finished shaving.

“Yes.”

Steel flashed brightly. The sharp point of her knife pressed against his neck, his own pulse trying to make it pierce his skin and spill. He reached for his own dagger but stopped when she began to speak again.

“Then you know there is another death. Sweeter. Stronger in ways. A death we all crave.”

“I don’t-.”

“Have you died before, Steapa? When did you first taste death?”

He watched her for a moment. She was inches from his face, the cold steel beginning to warm at his throat. He tried to find her age again. His eyes had always been good. She offered clues that were contradicting to the next. Skin as smooth as pearl, but rare silver in her hair. Young, curious eyes, with the beginnings of finer lines at their edges.

“I was a boy.”

In truth he barely remembered it. It had been summer, the days long and warm. The village he grew up in was perfumed by cider in those times, a drink he’d revelled in with a friend. He had learned the quieter differences between men and women but had been too drunk to remember them.

“Of course, but did it make you a man?”

He thought for a moment too long. The smirk had reappeared by the time he noticed it. The very tip of her knife drew over his skin, leaving it unmarked, but threatening enough to make his head move at her mercy. She pressed to his pulse again and moved closer. Her cheek was so close to his, he could feel its warmth. Eyes locked on his, and mouth by his ear, she spoke.

“Would you like to die, Steapa?”

He remembered himself and grasped her wrist, crushing it in his grip. She didn’t even flinch.  _ Have honour. Resist temptation. This is trickery. She’d kill you as soon as bed you. _ He was about to growl out his answer when alcohol finally laced his blood and weighed it down, pulling it deep in his gut.

She was watching him, seeing into his mind and watching thoughts drown. In one swift movement, he forced her hand down, making the sharp steel of her knife bite into the rough table. His grip was crushing, leaving her wrist a stark white when he released it.

“Enough. We leave early tomorrow.”

His chair scraped roughly against the flagstones as he stood, took his sword and cloak, and stormed away. She huffed a laugh and leant back to finish her drink.

Steapa paced the room.  _ One more day with that witch and I’ll kill her myself.  _ He ground his teeth, heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. The room the inn had offered was fairer than most. A large bed he did not intend to share, a stone fireplace and a large, shuttered, east-facing window. Perfect to catch the dawn and wake him early to rid himself of his cargo.

He flopped onto the bed, heavy with drink, and stared into the dark room. Sleep washed him, dampening his edges until he began to fade in the sheets.

Knuckles rapped the door lightly. He started and sat up, steadying himself as the room spun.  _ Stupid. You shouldn’t have tried to get more information from her, and not with mead. You’ll be lucky if you see noon tomorrow, let alone dawn.  _ His hand had barely met the cold metal of the hooped handle when a boy pushed the door open.

Scrappy, with large brown eyes, the child visibly tensed upon seeing Steapa. He frowned down at his disturber, only to see a pale hand ruffle his hair softly.

_ Speak of the Devil and his mistress arrives. _

“Go on,” she said softly, giving the boy’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

He gulped and scurried to the fireplace, pulling a flint and a small knife from his pocket. Steady, despite the fire running through her veins, she walked to the other side of the room and tucked the small bag of her belongings into a corner. She crouched to retrieve something, just as the boy nursed a spark in the fireplace.

“What are you doing?” Steapa demanded, still looming by the open door. The boy froze, letting the glow of the fire die a little. She stood casually, arms crossed and expression far too innocent. Her attention turned to the boy first.

“Keep going, it has nearly taken.” The boy nodded and turned back to his task, striking the flint again. She walked past Steapa and closed the door quietly. “I’m taking a bath.”

“What?!”

“It has been a long journey, and I am to meet with old friends tomorrow. I won’t go smelling like a tramp.”

The informative tone her voice had taken did nothing but irk him. He glared at her as she passed the boy again, watching him stoke the flames as they grew hotter.

Steapa was about the throw the boy from the room when another tune was rapped into the door. He wrenched it open. The innkeeps daughter; they’d seen her tending the hens this evening. She was taller than her brother and carrying a bucket of water. The same brown eyes widened, understandably so, at the furious expression the large man bore.

“Come in,” she spoke softly, waving the silent child into the room. She was relieved by the gentler manner of the woman, carrying the heavy bucket closer to hand it over. “Good, thank you. Go get another, and we’ll be done twice as fast.”

The keen smile she gave the children soothed their nerves enough for them to whisper quickly as they left the room. She set the vessel on the hook over the fire and stoked the flames, stacking wood in the northern way, tall and thick for heat, not light.

The cycle continued as Steapa despaired silently. He didn’t have the energy to argue anymore, and the will to sleep was overwhelming. Kicking off his boots, he sat in the bed and tried to stay awake as the children gave and took buckets, the woman nursing them to steam before pouring them into the wooden bath in the middle of the floor. His eyes grew heavy at this rhythm, and before long his chin was on his chest.

It was the unsettling silence after the door closed for good that woke him. That, and the soft tone of her voice as she placed a jug of water by the bed, filling a cup and pressing it into his hand.

“You forgot to tie up your horse.”

It took him a moment to rouse and understand her. When he did, he threw water over himself in his rush to stand and pull on his boots again. The single beat of laughter that left her made him pause. He turned over his shoulder.

“ _ You  _ forgot. I did not. She is fine.”

She had changed the fire for light, letting the embers set a soft glow in the room.  _ Don’t trust her.  _ He strode across the room, throwing the shutters open. Squinting through the heavy rain, he could see the horses grazing by a tree, tied loosely to a nearby post. He breathed a sigh of relief.  _ She just saved you another day with her. Maybe she hates you as much as you hate her. _

He took a deep lungful of the sobering, cool air before standing to close the window again.

“Leave it, please.”

Steapa turned to offer a glare. She’d stripped down to the old tunic she wore as an underdress. Anything longer would’ve meant wearing a proper dress, and she was a heathen, if nothing else. She wore a man’s trousers, though not anymore. The soft fabric of the tunic ended at her thighs, wheaten over silvery skin. She pulled it over her head and stood before him, naked as God had made her, and looked at him without shame.

Whilst she may have seen the faint rush of blood to his cheeks, she couldn’t see the other yet.

“Will you join me?”

He choked on his answer. “N-no.”

“Then go back to bed,” she shrugged, almost tired. Steapa stayed rooted to the spot, watching her cool expression more than anything else she had on display. She folded long legs into the steaming water and hissed as she settled down, wild curls gathered in her hand, only to be let loose to cascade over the edge of the bath.

Finally, he shook his head in disbelief and marched to the bed, throwing himself at the mattress as he tried to banish the image of her body from his mind. He found himself unable to sleep and cursed his own sobriety. The pale lines of her were burned into his eyelids, milk-white skin cast gold in the firelight. He clenched his jaw when he heard her sigh through the pounding rain.

When she did it again, he lifted his head, only to see her exactly where he’d left her. Calm, quiet, silhouetted against the dying glow of the fire, bathing in dim moonlight and steam. She washed quietly, rubbing a few days on the road from her skin until she shone softly. As she settled back, Steapa almost thought her asleep.

_ Good. She can sleep there and save me sharing the bed. _

Something about the brief image of her in the bed snagged in his mind. Would she return to wearing her tunic? Not likely. She’d sleep naked like the rest of her kind, as if she were an animal, as if she were his wife, as if they’d-.

A foxcry outside wrenched him from his spiralling mind, sobering enough again to chastise himself and offer a prayer for forgiveness, and the strength to resist temptation.

The faint throb in his lower gut lingered through these prayers, undeterred by their earnest pleas. There was nothing for it. He lifted his head again and there she was, fair and wild, still sharp in sleep. He turned onto his side, facing away from the window and, crucially, her. His hand crept across his hip of its own accord. When his palm pressed over the heated swell of his cock, he growled and forced himself to stand before this could go any further.

He padded barefoot across the room, eyes locked on the open window. His fingertips dug into the wood of the shutters as he took slow breaths, drinking in the clean air to still himself.

“What are you doing?”

He mouthed around an answer, refusing to turn around. “It’s cold. I’m shutting the-.”

“It’s too hot. Leave it open,” the hoarse quiet of her voice bending around words she was barely conscious enough to remember slipped into the cool air, passing Steapa too fast for his liking.

The quiet movement of water made his grip tighten on the shutters, but he made no move to shut them.  She came to stand beside him, footsteps damp and quiet. She watched him with curiosity, smiling a little as his gaze remained militantly on the torrential night.

“Steapa.”

He kept his eyes fixed forwards.

“Wash. The water is still warm.”

As she walked away, he swallowed thickly. In truth, the air was too hot, even this close to the window. With a huff, and hoping he could scrub impurity from his skin, he unfastened his leather jerkin and dumped it on the floor. He didn’t look up from his own clothes until he was left in his trousers, facing the fire. He could hear her at the other side of the room, pouring herself another cup of water. The streams were sweet here, far sweeter than the south. If the water was cool and fresh, there were few greater delicacies offered. Hot and soaking with the apple wood of the bath, it became aromatic. He took one look over his shoulder and bit his lip.

Water was still carving quiet paths over her skin, as if she’d stepped forth from baptism. He watched the sheen of it as she moved smoothly, a softer form than his own. Wild curls were dark against her back, swaying whenever she moved. He kicked out of his trousers, quick and quiet, before quenching hot joints in the soothing, warm water. Folded carefully into the small space, he ducked under the water to scrub at his hair.

She continued her quiet business in the room, retrieving her bag to reorganise the contents, eventually pulling out a whetstone to sharpen her knife. She sat on the edge of the bed, still bare. Steapa closed his eyes and leant his head back, feeling warmth seep into him and steal the aching from his bones in a quiet magic. There was still the uncomfortable throbbing between his legs to contend with, but at least it was fading. He thanked God.

The sing of stone against steel, rain stamping dully on the thatch and his own deep breaths were enough to lull him back to a doze. When the smoother note of her actions stopped, he was lifted from that quiet, rhythmic space. He busied himself with washing, forcing the mud from his skin and the pain from muscles that threatened to cramp. A twinge between his shoulders made him hiss.

Dark eyes were on him instantly, searching him for a pain he was already resigned to. She packed away the knife and stone, and moved to tuck the bag away in the corner again. Steapa shut his eyes again and pretended to relax when she walked in front of him to stoke the fire. He heard her quiet footsteps as she walked behind him, heading in the direction of the bed again.

She stopped. Her hand prodded the back of his neck. He turned immediately, face already in a half-snarl, only to wince at the sharp tug between his shoulders. Soft and smooth, her skin was all but dry, stretched taut over strong curves. Steapa’s eyes wandered, following the roundness of her breasts, the dip of a waist she concealed under heavy leather armour, the swell of hips that led to the fine, dark space between her legs. He realised himself and wrenched his focus to the fire. She raised an eyebrow and shook her head.

He didn’t flinch when she put her hand to the back of his neck again. Too busy willing away the returning demands of his manhood, he moved obediently under her touch. She pushed his head forwards and down, before positioning his shoulders to sit limply. He let out a growl when her thumbs pressed against his spine, mapping the scarred expanse to find knotted muscles. Steapa grew heavy under her touch, back loosening under a practiced hand that worked the twinges and balled muscles of too many years of neglect away. He felt as though she could have swiped her hand over his back and sloughed away the pain, revealing a fresh body.

His focus wavered, pulling away from the disciplined orders of his mind to the tugging in his lower gut. Her hands were below the water, working the final kinks from his lower ribs and waist. She stood over him, carefully burning the aches away with warm hands. Her hair tickled between his shoulders and made him tense. She leaned to the side to check his face for any silent grimaces.

Whilst not in pain, he wasn’t relaxed. He was glaring at the rain-streaked night, jaw clenched so hard she thought he might break a tooth. Her eyes followed the strong lines of him, eventually finding the source of his frustration. Smirking to herself, she carried on, pushing against his lower back to banish the final knots. As she stretched the muscles to his hips, she slipped a hand past and wrapped it around his cock.

His hand shot under the water and grabbed her wrist, eyes widening at the window. Her fingertips danced over his shaft, not stopping when he tightened his grip.

“What do your people call this?” she whispered, breath warm against his neck. He swallowed thickly and answered.

“Sin.”

“Then this is my sin, not yours. Your God cannot blame you for this.” She used the loosening of his grip to wrap her fingers around him again, gently working him in slow strokes. “He can blame me all he likes.”

Steapa turned to see an honest smile, and dark eyes watching curiously. In the firelight, and this close, he could see the deep, murky green of them illuminated, sparked with gold as the flames spat and sparked. Her smile widened when he shuddered under her touch, already twitching and hard.

He let out a deep breath when she squeezed him, thumb swiping idly over the swollen head of his cock. She hummed and continued to work him. Another deep squeeze and pull made his mouth hang open. Her voice was warm and quiet under his ear.

“So, Steapa… would you like to die?”

All she gave him when he turned to her was keen eyes.

_ Decide, man. She’ll either bed and kill you, only bed you, or only kill you. You may as well get a decent fuck out of it. _

He stood suddenly, standing to face her as water ran over him. She trailed hungry eyes down his neck, watching his Adam’s apple bob deliciously when he swallowed, trailing over his broad chest, down to the heavy length between his hips and quickly mapping his legs. Crouched on the floor, as naked as him, she locked back onto his eyes.

In a flurry of movement, he stepped from the bath and buried a hand in her hair, pulling her to him to taste her lips. She met him with softer fire, still tasting of the alcohol that had long since left them. Rough, soaked tan skin pressed against soft pale flesh. He let out a groan when her hand trailed down his side and wrapped around his cock once more. She used that to slip her tongue into his mouth, offering a fuller taste as she savoured him. His hands quickly found purchase at her hips, steering her across the room. She felt the bed meet her legs before smirking.

“Have you ever tasted a woman?”

He frowned, only for her to push him onto the bed. Standing before him, hair wild and skin bare, he let his eyes roam freely over her, hand drifting down to fist his own cock.

“Steapa,” she prompted him, straddling him to sit at his waist. He met her eyes and shook his head. “Would you like to?”

Her hands moved from his chest, running over her thighs to busy between her legs. Entranced, Steapa watched, palming his cock with more intent as she drew a gasp from her own touches. Lit by the dying fire behind her, it set a soft red glow at the frayed edges of brown curls and gilded the lines of her curves. He nodded slowly.

“Good,” she smirked.

She knelt at his side, only to push him onto his back when he tried to roll her over. He lay down, still idly stroking himself. The scent of her skin was dizzying as she put her knees at his shoulders and sat behind his head, watching his Adam’s apple bob with another thick swallow.

“I… don’t know how,” he admitted

“You are clever. Learn.”

He nodded once, and she positioned herself over him. Between her legs, her skin was still damp from her bath and watching him, perfumed with the scent of her own sex. She stayed just out of reach, hands roaming over her own breasts to tug at her nipples. A single, warm beat of laughter left her when he pressed a kiss to her sex.

“A taste, Steapa.”

Feeling his cock throb in his hand, and pulled by curiosity, he slipped his tongue between her lips. She was sweet and fresh, and left him craving. She hummed when he ran the flat of his tongue between her folds. He let his mouth explore, feeling the slick softness of her as she lowered onto him, hips moving gently in their own slow waves. He groaned into her, dipping his tongue to follow with long, powerful laves against her.

She gasped when he discovered a bundle of nerves, one she knew well and he thought had caused pain. His lips left her with a wet smack, only for her to whine and move forwards to lean her forearms against his hips. She angled her legs and moved his hands to her hips. His cock throbbed at the abandonment.

“Steapa, please,” she breathed, warm air washing over his length. 

He busied himself, finding that sensitive bud again and feeling her tense when he swirled his tongue around it. The needy moan she let out was enough confirmation for him to keep going. He only stopped to growl when her hand wrapped around his cock, spitting on him to work the hard shaft. She squeezed a drop of precum from him, biting her lip to stifle another moan as he suckled on her clit.

The warm fanning of her breath made his cock twitch and turn angrily veiny in her hand. She grinned before moving to kiss near the base. He paused, unable to keep his mind, as her lips dragged along his shaft, finally pressing against the tip in a soft kiss. Her tongue slipped out, teasing the end of him in gentle licks. His head fell back, only to have her move her hips and whine in need.

He grabbed her, parting her to push his tongue inside, craving the taste of her and the feel of her mouth on his cock. She cupped his balls and squeezed, drawing a deep groan that went straight into her sex. His chest heaved as her lips parted around his cock and groaned with satisfaction as her mouth surrounded him. The pleasure was dizzying, bare and soft.

He teased her clit again, only for her to moan with him in her hot, wet mouth. Drinking in her essence, his earlier sobriety was forgotten. He half-thrusted up into her mouth, only to have her nails dig sharply into his thighs. He hissed at the sudden pain as she dulled it, massaging his balls while she took more and more of him each time she sucked him into her mouth. Burying his tongue in her core and squeezing her thighs, he set to work, trying in vain to beat her at her own game. The scratch of stubble against her skin made her hiss. His rare breaths were ragged, spaced around the need to hear her moan against his cock again.

That time came when his lips closed around her rosebud, tongue laving slowly over the tiny bundle of swollen flesh. He felt her falter, moaning deeply around a mouthful of him. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking in the full length of him, tongue swirling constantly. Deliberately moaning slowly as she pulled her mouth from him, she felt his hips buck under her. Coated in her spit and his precum, she easily took him back into her mouth, working him faster as he twitched in her mouth.

She could feel her own release approaching, swirling as she ground against his mouth. He groaned deeply into her sex as his cock throbbed, and he finally came, filling her mouth hot ropes of his seed. She swallowed with his length still in her mouth, pulling at the oversensitive tip with the motion of her throat.

They both panted, though Steapa less so. Still craving the sweetness of her core, he swirled his tongue relentlessly against her clit. Her hips ground harder against him, breathing through gritted teeth as she neared her own release. It built in her like a wave, one she rode until she sang over the smoky crackle of the fire. She came with a strangled moan, hips falling into a sloppy rhythm as she followed her high.

When she finally slowed, she raised herself from his mouth and sat back behind his head again. Flushed and shining with a polish of sweat, she panted and watched him lick his lips. His chin and cheeks were soaked, and his pupils blown wide.

“What say you, Steapa?”

He shook his head slowly, unable to find words, as she grinned down at him. Rearranging herself, she knelt at his side and watched him swallow thickly. She put her hand on his chest, running slowly over his torso with a deep hum, fingers seeking out his cock again.

“I’m spent,” he gave her a tired look. She watched him with soft eyes.

“Spend again.”

She straddled his hips, rubbing him between her folds as she ground against him with a hiss. He shuddered when the head of his cock brushed against her, almost stinging in sensitivity. She tilted her head and slid over him again. He grimaced, and slammed her onto her back, pinning her down with his weight. Still, her hips moved against him in need.

He held her wrists by her head to stop her reaching for him. He was winning, he could almost see the fight leaving her eyes when she surged upwards, binding him in a harsh kiss. She whimpered at the taste of her own sex and pushed her tongue against his to afford him a flavour of his own. Salt and sweet blended with the shared musk of desire. She hooked her ankles around his back and pulled him closer.

Steapa could scarcely believe the drunkenness of his own body, and had to look down to confirm that he was ready again, fully hard and angrily red. She hissed, desperately trying to get some friction against her. He looked so shocked when he brought his gaze back to her flushed features that she laughed.

“Is this new?”

“Yes,” he nodded, quickly glancing back down to check he had actually seen that. The thrum of his last orgasm still warmed his belly, he could barely tell where that sensation ended and the new rush of blood began.

“Steapa,” she whispered sweetly, kissing his cheek. “Please.”

Still panting, he rutted against her, drawing a hiss from her lips. He pushed against the soft, slick velvet of her heat, toying with her cunt. He propped himself up over her, watching her cheeks flush deeper and wild curls pool on the sheets.

When he finally sank into her, seating himself deep, it was with a mutual moan. He drew out, agonisingly slowly and watched her writhe in need. His hips pressed again. She hissed with all the wild nature he expected of her. 

She still moved against him, hands clawing at his back as he picked a rhythm and thrust into her, drawing sweeter mewls and growling into her neck. He stretched her, pushing against her depths with every thrust. A broken groan left him when she clenched around him. They were high on pleasure, frantically chasing another high as they throbbed against each other in desperation.

“ _ S-Steapa! _ ” she whined, arching her back as she met every thrust he gave. She watched him, panting through parted, kiss-swollen lips. The cool light green of his eyes met a darker shade, one that willed him on. He wrapped an arm under her waist, pulling her flush against him and feeling the jolts he sent through her body. He could feel warmth pooling in his gut, and he wanted to watch her as she fell apart around him.

Every rhythmic roll of his hips became more primal until they were breathless, clawing at each other in the pursuit of falling apart. He planted a fist in the sheets, clenching around a handful of linen. Breaths were hissed through gritted teeth, mouths fell open in wild cries, guttural sounds echoing out into the pouring rain with the vicious crackling of the log fire. He pressed messy kisses to her jaw, neck, chest; taking mouthfuls of warm flesh. The bites made her moan, painting pale skin with lavender and rose.

Her legs pulled him in, a knot tying in her belly, straining like a rope in a storm. She was fraying. He could feel her fluttering around him, walls desperately pulling at his pulsing cock. She forgot all tongues then, even her own. She knew nothing but the sounds he could fuck out of her, and the cry of his name, as if he were a heathen’s god. He watched her brows knit in pleasure, her lips falling apart as her chest heaved.

He met her for bruising kisses, rough and full of teeth and tongues. His hips snapped against her desperately, filling the air with the sound of skin slapping and her hoarser whines. The feel of her heating around him, soft and soaked, ripped a growl from his throat.

The ropes were taut in her gut, snapping with a final forceful thrust. She writhed, tensing to move wildly under him with a loud cry. For a moment she glowed. She panted his name, watching him with lust-darkened eyes as she stilled, still welcoming him.

The final hard squeezes of her walls around him pulled him into his release. He came with a long, steady groan, forcing as deep as he could to spill his seed. Thick cum filled her as he growled through his last few broken thrusts.

He collapsed on top of her, still seated deep as they breathed away the high. Her fingertips ghosted over his back, eventually playing in the short, thick mess of his hair. They were numb and hypersensitive at the same time, drunkenly resisting sleep to commit this to memory. Limbs tangled and warm, they let fatigue threaten them with soft poison.

Steapa frowned against her collarbone and lifted his head. She drew heavy eyes open to look at him with a softness that made him feel guilty for his next words.

“Did you do this with Finan? Is that why he won’t tell any of us what happened?”

She laughed warmly, and he felt her walls pull around him again. She shook her head and ran her fingers through his hair, before ghosting over the stubble on his cheek.

“No. He won’t tell anyone because I asked him to.”

He was relieved, but more curious than before. “Why?”

“I killed men who crossed us. It was messy, for them,” she shrugged, watching him softly. “Steapa-.”

“Who were they?”

She swallowed and let her eyes rest on his chest for a moment, fixing on the cross he still wore. It lay idle and warm against her skin. She took a deep breath before meeting the sage green of his eyes.

“No one waits at the ship tomorrow. Not anymore.”


End file.
